Why the Director of the Newtown Documentary Never Mentions the Sandy Hook Shooter's Name

Director Kim Snyder discusses the community she documented in mourning, healing, and re-building.

Kim Snyder initially visited Newtown, Connecticut in December 2012. On December 14, a 20-year-old gunman had murdered 20 elementary school children and six teachers, and initially, the New York-based documentary filmmaker just wanted understand how severe the emotional damage was in the community. She wasn't sure whether or not an honest, responsible film should be made of such a tragedy.

Over the next eight months, however, she got to know those affected by the tragedy, and now, after three years of filming and editing, her documentary—simply titled Newtown—is opening in limited theaters across America. The result is a film that isn't just good: It's delicate, powerful, poignant, and noticeably un-preachy, allowing the viewer, regardless of their political affiliations, to sympathize with the parents, teachers, and siblings seen onscreen on a purely human level.

The message of Newtown is in many ways that the town is a symbol for anyone’s hometown. But while most audiences would see the tall trees, cutesy local shops, and goofily named streets of Newtown as the hallmarks of some Everytown, U.S.A., I couldn't help but be literally reminded of my childhood. I grew up in Newtown, from the time I was nine until I graduated from Newtown High School—itself just down the road from Sandy Hook Elementary. The shooter was just one grade below me in school—he was nine months, six days younger. He and I walked the same halls in high school, even if I don't remember much if anything about him from that time. Some of my friends say they recall his briefcase and tendency to hug the walls as he walked. Others, including myself, don't, which is the scariest part. We didn't notice him until we had to.

The Newtown I grew up in is not, of course, the one that exists now. For many of these children, especially the brothers and sisters of the deceased, childhood as I knew it and they knew it can never be restored. But one of Newtown's greatest strengths as a film is that it goes beyond the parents of the deceased to highlight the survivor's guilt felt by so many others in the community. Through Snyder's lens, you see a town realizing it has a chance to be the one that finally says "enough is enough."

Newtown doesn't offer much closure, but it does hint at new beginnings and the comfort in knowing that time must go on. Last month, the new, completely re-designed Sandy Hook Elementary opened. The youngest kids who just began kindergarten and first grade have no memory of December 14, 2012. They'll learn eventually, but right now, each day is and should only be about getting on the bus and going to school. I wish this awful thing had never happened, not just in my hometown, but period. Yet there's comfort in knowing that its story was in good hands.

Newtown debuts today in select theaters. For more information about showtimes, visit newtownfilm.com

Early in the film, messages between parents sent the day of the shooting begin populating on screen—things like "All the Greenspans are home," and then, "Weilands are home and safe, too" and finally," Guys, I'm so sorry to say our sweet, little angel Daniel didn't make it out." Those were real conversations that happened on the day?
Nothing was recreated for the film, no. We recreated nothing. One day, Mark [Barden, father of Daniel] decided around the time we were trying to render on screen the actual day, and trying to figure out a way to do something that wasn't exploitative, but that gets people to get through this denial and desensitization. Mark said, "You know, I have this email from the day." I was sort of, like, "Oh, don't go there yet," and he insisted on pulling them up. So we took them, with his permission. And we reached out to see if anyone wanted their name changed, but every single one of those names is real.

Were there any families involved in the tragedy that didn't want to be in the film?
I didn't want to go up there with lists. The problem there is that what, you film someone based on a list and then you end up telling them, "Oh sorry you didn't make the cut. Your precious child didn't make the cut," you know? But I didn't want to do what the rest of the news media—and this is not to criticize them, they just have a different mandate—was doing. I spent eight months in town before I was ever in touch with any of the families. I knew that media itself had added to the trauma. A lot of that trust building was about making quiet relationships and explaining to people how long-form documentary filmmaking is different. After speaking to people, I found a lot of them said, "We want to be remembered not as a place of tragedy, but as a place that helped make some meaningful change." David Wheeler [father of deceased Ben Wheeler] says, "There's this natural human desire to protect the rest of the world." That's a beautiful thing.

So you really became a part of the community?
I was an outsider, but after three years, I felt one with it. But I realized at a certain point that there is just so much survivor guilt here, and so many people are so fucked up, that there was a sense of, "I can't even begin to talk about my own pain because there are people who actually lost family members." There was stoicism in town where people didn't want to talk about it. But everyone on some level was traumatized. It's a small town, and as you know, everyone knows someone directly involved. I wanted people to know that this kind of thing victimizes and terrorizes a whole community. But I hope the film gave certain people in town a voice to be heard and seen. The problem is the more these things happen, the more people desensitize and become numb. People still need to get up and put their kids on the bus.

Why did you decide it was worth it, re-opening these wounds for so many people?
If there was ever a person who ever felt any reluctance in a conversation, I would tell them it wasn't the right time for them. In terms of how to develop the trust with these people, it was just about being honest. In some ways I felt comfortable around the grief. I've never gone through anything like that but the terrain was not something that scared me. The families didn't feel bothered by me. They wanted to normalize it. Mark told me people would come up to him all the time and say, "I don't know what to say to you," and he would say, "I don't know what to say to you either." I learned that people who have gone through that sort of grief lose all sense of control of their life. So intuitively I knew there was no script. It was always about telling people they had options. In normal filmmaking, it costs money to get a crew and create schedules. But if you are in Newtown and someone just isn't having a good day, it just ain't gonna happen. So it was a lot of just going with where people are at, and respecting those boundaries. I always felt like our movie was second to their pain and grief.

Nine kids dying a day from gun violence should not be a political issue. That is a humanitarian issue and a public health issue.

What would you say are the main messages the people of Newtown wanted to get across?
There are so many remarkable people in this film, and I think Newtown is a special place. We saw after 9/11. If you dropped in from anywhere to the heart of Manhattan then, you would think there was a special something about New York City, too.

You say Newtown is a special place, which I find interesting because I always thought it was boring. A murder, let alone dozens in a single day, is the last thing that we ever thought would happen. The cops in town were there to break up high school parties as far as we were concerned.
I grew up in a place just like it. But I didn't know Newtown before this. I think there is something horrible here, and for generations people will be scarred. There's this negative fallout, but when I say "special," I sensed sometimes a feeling like, "How do I bitch about my, like, tennis time moved, when this happened?" We can curl up in a ball and be bitter forever, but I think the town has put one foot in front of the other and that's inspiring.

There's only one scene when some of the parents go to Congress to try to get this new background check law passed [which was ultimately voted against]. But it never felt like your mission to make this a lesson about gun violence or politics. Why?
I didn't want to have a political agenda. We have to take this event out of denial first because there are little kids at stake. But nine kids dying a day from gun violence should not be a political issue. That is a humanitarian issue and a public health issue. So the film did not at all start with gun policy or an agenda there. It was exploring the journey of a community through grief and resilience. And yes, there's an issue of gun violence underneath that, and we have to look at that.

People might be surprised, because I bet there are a lot of Trump votes in Newtown. Despite his anti-gun laws stance.
But we also wanted to take it out of a polarized, political place. I think what's different about this film is not only that it shows the aftermath in the community, but it shows these different constituent voices. I think the conversation is changing. If you're waiting for politicians in this partisan system to pass anything, that's where the frustration is. But in our film there are teachers, doctors, priests, neighbors, moms, young people. I just didn't know what younger audiences would think—but high school kids all feel so profoundly moved, which has been the most surprising. You're closer to that age group, but my feeling is, it's their issue, and it has to become one that's not apathetic.

I often think about, like, "Okay, I was 21 when this happened. If it had happened 11, 12 years earlier, who's to say it wouldn't have been me in that classroom?" I feel lucky that I got to have an untainted youth in a lot of ways.
I also think there might be something to seeing adults in such a vulnerable space. I think when you're young you have this idea of adulthood as a thing that's fake. You put on this armor. Teenagers are more in touch with their vulnerability, even if they don't show it, so when they see adults being vulnerable they think finally they're being honest.

Why is the shooter's name never mentioned in the film?
That's important, very important. I felt that I wanted to be in solidarity with the people I met by not giving recognition to the shooter. There's so much in the press already about "The Mind of the Killer" and I think some of it is pertinent in understand what some kids go through growing up. But this isn't that movie. I wanted to make a point of focusing it on the town. And my sense is the town didn't even have the bandwidth to deal with him. Their days were about grief, not him.

They weren't angry?
I think there is rage. And there's the moment where Nicole [Hockley] says, "I wouldn't forgive him if he didn't commit suicide. And I wouldn't forgive his mother." So I let her say it. I didn't feel giving him a name and a lot of... there's a movement called No Notoriety, that asks press not to name him as much. There are copycats out there, and even he had charts in his basement of other mass shootings.

Some people might watch this film and criticize it for focusing on a white town while African-American youth die every day because of gun violence. How would you respond to that criticism?
We followed a story in the first few months of a black pastor in Hartford named Sam Saylor who'd lost his son [in a random act of gun violence in October of 2012]. He told me, "I'm sick and tired of hearing about Newtown. I want you to know about my kid." But eventually he came around once Biden was up here and he was standing next to a father from Newtown. He said, "We are all the same. We are all Newtown." And we made a short [film] that addresses that very issue. But I felt as a filmmaker I couldn't be all over the map. I had to do something very micro and insular. That's why I didn't shy away from showing the big houses [in Newtown]. I think there is something to this being a white suburban town in America.

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